


Cat Scratch Fever

by Vagrant_Blvrd



Series: Kings of Nowhere [31]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe- GTA V, Fake AH Crew, M/M, Pre-Fake AH Crew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 20:06:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15781167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrant_Blvrd/pseuds/Vagrant_Blvrd
Summary: It’s possible that Trevor’s bitten off more than he can chew.“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”Trevor rolls his eyes at the goon’s delighted little chuckle. Such a clever joke, as though Trevor hasn’t heard it before.





	Cat Scratch Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for Rhinnie who asked for Alfreyco. (And also [went and reblogged this and my brain was like "Oh, hey, Catwoman!Trevor" because those damn gloves.)](https://rhinnie.tumblr.com/post/176861127280/vagastag-fahctreyco-maybe-that-makes-him)
> 
> This is like. An alternate version of that AU we've been tossing back and forth, so yes.

It’s possible that Trevor’s bitten off more than he can chew.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!” 

Trevor rolls his eyes at the goon’s delighted little chuckle. Such a clever joke, as though Trevor hasn’t heard it before.

There’s a burn in his thighs – he’s really let himself go, hasn't he? Gotten soft the last little while, and there was a reason he didn’t linger on his reflection in the mirror before setting out tonight. (The suit is skintight, after all, and offers no mercies.)

Soft or not, muscle memory is a beautiful thing and he’s not so out of practice that he doesn’t know what to do next. Flash drive of vital information tucked away safely in a compartment on his belt, sharp little claws that pop out when he flexes his hands just so, the right amount of pressure along the mechanism and he swings out of cover and starts his run.

Fast and light on his feet as he uses an overturned crate to launch him towards the goon. Big burly gentleman with questionable facial hair and atrocious fashion choices – those boots with that tactical vest? _Appalling._ (He knows it’s stereotyping, but he can’t imagine the brute has good dental hygiene when he looks like that.)

The goon starts to turn, and Trevor grins as he sees the flicker of surprise on his face before he strikes. Hand flashing out to the strap of the weapon, claws catching in the weave before he wrenches and they slice through. 

_Jerks_ , and the rifle goes clattering somewhere off to their left, and Trevor follows up wth a closed fist because the classics never go out of style. (That, and he doesn't want to maim the man. This isn't personal, after all.)

The goon grunts, staggering back a step and Trevor puts more of his weight behind the next blow, and the poor bastard finally drops.

Trevor pauses to check that the goon’s still breathing, not about to die on him and continues on his way out of the building quick as he can. The noise will draw other guards, and Trevor’s not stupid enough to stick around to see it. 

Not when he’s gotten what he came here for.

Outside the city is loud and dirty and a jarring difference from the quiet confines of the office building. Disorienting, almost, but Trevor keeps moving. Passes by the little alcove where he left a folded up trench coat and trendy little fedora and strolls casually to a side street where the battered little car he’s...acquired waits patiently.

Beaten up thing, scratched and faded paint and a stubbornness to it he admires because it refuses to quit on him. Struggles up the slightest incline, gears grinding when he shifts gears, but by God does it keep trucking along.

========

Technically, Trevor’s retired.

Left the business a few years ago and settled down with a nice boy. 

Trevor had his job working at an animal clinic (ha, ha, _ha_ ) and Alfredo worked for a security firm in the city. (Oh, the irony.)

They’d been happy, or so Trevor thought. Pair of idiots getting by best they could. Someone he played off perfectly, Fredo always willing to roll with whatever insanity Trevor got caught up and vice versa, but then - 

Oh, but _then_.

Alfredo slowly pulling away, citing problems at work and Trevor hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. But then it got worse, to the point they rarely saw each other throughout the day. Phone calls went to voice mail, went ignored and he’d thought – _thought_ \- 

Well.

He’d thought it was Alfredo losing interest, getting tired of Trevor and letting him piece it all together on his own. 

This horrible feeling that that Trevor had been wrong about him all this time. His judgment flawed for not being able to see Alfredo as the kind of boy who’d just let things between them wither and die, and that had hurt far more than he expected it to.

Trevor muddling along like he wasn’t hurting, confused and stupid and _naive_ for the first time in years.

And then he’d gotten a text from an old work buddy and an attached news article with a picture of Alfredo front and center with one of the biggest criminal names in the country. 

One of many millionaires out west who lorded it over the city with his extravagant lifestyle and supposed stable of pretty, nubile things, and suddenly Alfredo in the mix.

Not exactly what he’d expected when Alfredo said he was headed to Los Santos.

And maybe there was some anger burning at the bottom of Trevor’s fragile little heart at everything that had happened. 

So.

To Los Santos it was, that fire safe hidden under the floorboard in their bedroom closet cracked wide open and his old suit packed up along with a few essentials for the flight to the Golden State in search of answers he probably wouldn’t like.

========

Trevor’s not bad when it comes to computers, manages to get through the encryption on the files he’d stolen and sifts through them.

The motel room he’s staying in is small and dirty and cramped and he hates it. Hates this city full of people like him (worse than) and the fact that Alfredo is here.

He’s here and cuddled up to _Ramsey_ of all people.

This respected figure in Los Santos with his millions sunk into a wide array of businesses and squeaky clean facade that falls apart the deeper you dig.

Goes by an old college nickname the journalists and bloggers of this city use fondly, something to do with his nautical-themed tattoos. 

“’Corpirate,’” Trevor scoffs, fingers tapping out a restless rhythm on his thigh. “What a name.”

It’s the city’s worst kept secret that Ramsey is heavily involved in the criminal side of things in Los Santos. Operates out of the penthouse in one of the many buildings he owns in this city and shameless about it. All his wards in on things, helping him widen his hold on the city and so damn pleased with themselves.

Money and influence enough to keep him out of jail no matter how many times they go after him and his, and one of the reasons Trevor had made damn sure to avoid stepping foot in Los Santos before now.

But, Alfredo and Ramsey and answers Trevor needs if he wants any kind of closure at all.

He stares at the photos of Ramsey and his pretty little things. 

The Brit he’d collected on his travels years and years ago, the first of many. The angry looking one from a business trip to the east coast that one time. The...well, there’s no readily available story for the one with the man bun, but rumors say he used to be a model in his youth, which could be more than enough explanation. The one with the beard is an old friend, confidant and supposed advisor and then Alfredo. 

Newest addition to the fold, a quick blurb regarding his promising career in the military before a training injury landed him behind a desk counting down the days until his enlistment ended that fades into vague hand waving nonsense about his time in Liberty City.

“You always did look good in a tuxedo Fredo,” Trevor murmurs, and puts the laptop into sleep mode because he has work to do.

========

It’s a mystery as to how Trevor got the moniker he has when he’s _working_. There aren’t any adorable if impractical ears on his suit, no feline-themed gear he uses. (The claws are practical! They’re tiny little knives on the ends of his gloves that make climbing things a snap, and serve as useful weapons and tools in turn for his work.)

But such is man, he supposes, or something along those line because -

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”

Trevor smothers a sigh in his hands, crouched low behind some hideous sculpture placed in an alcove in the hallway.

He’s rustier than he thought because so far he’s managed to trip several alarms and alert this annoying specimen of a guard.

Less brutish than the one at the office building, but only just. 

To be expected, probably, because this is one of Ramsey’s little properties. Lovely little mansion up in the hills and a soiree taking place. Fundraiser for one of the charities he funds, the man himself glad-handing sponsors and critics alike and his pretty little things swanning about.

He’d meant to sneak in, get his hands on Ramsey’s personal files, but, again, _rusty_.

Too much time spent with his head in the clouds thinking he’d gotten his fairy-tale ending after all.

Trevor presses a button on the remote in his hand and a small explosive charge goes off down the hall. (Goodbye priceless vase, hello distraction.)

He waits a beat and creeps out, slow and careful. Quiet, quiet, quiet, and nearly has a heart attack when he hears a gun cock.

“Hands up where I can see them!”

 _Rusty_.

Trevor complies, slipping one of his little gadgets off his belt as he raises his hands and slowly turns. Pasted a smile on his face and tries to remember that emotions get people like him killed, but it’s hard to keep in mind.

The goon with the gun blinks, genuine surprise on his face as he lowers it.

“Trevor?”

He really should think about reinvesting in a good pair of goggles, or a suit that covers his face one of these days if he’s going to come out of retirement.

“Hey, Fredo,” he says, all bright and cheery the way he used to before things turned Lifeinvader complicated. 

Alfredo is staring at him in shock, and Trevor might feel a little bad about that if he wasn’t the reason Trevor’s here in the first place.

“I’d really love to stay and chat,” Trevor says, hooking the tip of a claw in the little pin and pulling just enough that the _shink_ noise it makes when it disengages reaches Alfredo. “But I’ve got places to be.”

He sees Alfredo raise his gun and thinks, _well, then, that answers that, doesn’t it?_ with this sharp little ache in his chest as he throws the tiny grenade as it starts hissing smoke.

========

This is a mistake.

The sort that’s guaranteed to get Trevor killed, but what’s a little risk now and then?

And besides, he doesn’t quite have his answers, does he.

Knows Alfredo is clearly working for Ramsey, running security or something else to investigate the disturbance Trevor caused at the party the other night. Seemed reluctant to pull the trigger on him, but perfectly able to aim a gun at him and - 

The heat of the moment, most likely, or maybe Trevor’s just lying to himself. Making up excuses and clinging to them because he’s still in love with Alfredo even though it stands to get him killed, and yet here he is anyway.

“I’m an idiot,” Trevor mutters, flashes the poor woman sharing the elevator a reassuring smile when she inches away from the lunatic muttering to himself. 

She doesn’t seem to buy it, but Trevor doesn’t push when he’s certain things are uncomfortable enough for her as it is.

Another night, another party for the filthy rich under the guise of raising money for charity. This time it’s being held at a swanky hotel and Trevor’s gotten his hands on an invitation.

Ramsey’s here with his “wards” and Trevor's an idiot.

Doesn’t know what the point of all this is, but it’s too late to back out now. 

The elevator slows to a stop and Trevor lets the woman leave first, puts enough distance between them that it doesn’t feel like he’s following her and then he’s through the little security checkpoint outside the ballroom where the party's being helped.

He mingles, bright smiles and pleasant laughter at their terribly bland jokes. Delicious hors d'oeuvres and oh, dear, is that a gun in his back?

“You’re not on the list.”

Trevor turns, oh so slow and finds himself face to face with the former model. Perfectly polite smile on his face and gun digging into Trevor’s ribs, and maybe he’ll take a pass on that little bacon-wrapped bit of deliciousness on the refreshment table he’s been eyeing.

“This is true,” Trevor says, and _smiles_. 

The guy, Haywood, raises an eyebrow and nudges Trevor away from the party and to a conference room down the hall.

Ramsey’s inside, along with his entourage, including Alfredo, who looks - 

Not happy.

Ramsey’s watching him, hands in his pockets and this tired little smile on his lips.

“Never expected to see you in Los Santos,” he says, and of course he knows who Trevor is. (Was?) 

Trevor shrugs.

“Times change,” he says, and looks at Alfredo in his sharp tuxedo. “People change.”

Behind him Haywood growls, and Trevor doesn’t roll his eyes at that bit of unnecessary drama, but it’s so very tempting.

“Yeah,” Ramsey says, glancing at Alfredo who’s got himself all locked down. “They do, don’t they.”

“Hmm,” Trevor agrees. “I don’t have a problem with your little operation out here,” Trevor says, because showing weakness here would be a major misstep, but he didn’t come this far to make enemies. “Just wanted to have a little chat with Alfredo.”

That sets off a ripple through Ramsey’s crew- that’s what they are, the truth the rumors don’t get close enough to. Not wards or bedmates (or at least not all of them, Trevor’s still not sure about Patillo), but his _crew_.

Operating in plain sight and the authorities helpless to do anything about it lest they show their own hand. All the dirty little secrets, the bribes and corruption and everything Ramsey and his have been slowly purging the city of so they can set up their own little empire.

Lets the rumor mill run wild as he goes around town with one (or more) of them on his arm and no one the wiser because they’re all old hands at this game by now. Give the public what it wants, expects to see and they don’t bother to look further.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Trevor says, unable to stop because there’s that little ember burning away in his chest. Anger and hurt and confusion. “Fredo, honeybun, how could you?”

Alfredo’s composure cracks, has him choking on the horrendous pet name Trevor’s only used to terrorize him in the past.

“Uh,” Ramsey says, not sure what to say. “What?”

“I’ve got this, boss,” Alfredo says, and bustles over to grab Trevor by the arm and drags him out of the room.

========

“Honeybun?” 

Trevor shrugs, leaning on the balcony railing that overlooks the city streets below.

He doesn’t think Alfredo took him to this quiet spot to murder him, but if he did the view is spectacular.

“Would you prefer pumpkin truffle? Honey badger?”

Trevor has a _list_ thanks to the dark corners of the internet where the tragically romantic reside with their heart-patterned backgrounds and flowery prose.

“Oh my God,” Alfredo mutters, helpless smile and odd little laugh like he’s trying not to laugh, indulge Trevor in this terrible thing. “What?”

Trevor shrugs, heartburn or something else acting up at the way Alfredo’s looking at him, and looks back at the city.

“The internet is a strange and terrifying place,” he says, and leaves it at that, because it’s the horrible truth.

Alfredo mutters something Trevor doesn’t quite catch as he moves to stand next to him.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says, sheepish note to his voice given the situation at hand. “Ryan and Jeremy tracked me down, asked if I wanted a job that would make a difference.”

That.

“And,” Alfredo says, because he knows Trevor. “I didn’t want to get you caught up in all this.”

From the corner of his eye Trevor sees Alfredo’s hand as he gestures at Los Santos.

Beautiful from up here, so far from the rot and corruption it’s built on. Easy to forget what the city is like when you’re so high above it that the details fall away.

Trevor snorts because that’s a convenient lie, isn’t it? Worry about little old Trevor, helpless damsel in distress and break his heart because that’s the right thing to do.

“The ‘right thing’”, Trevor says, and hates how bitter it sounds. Not sure if it’s directed at Alfredo or himself, because he hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with his own little secrets, has he. 

Figured it was for the best if Alfredo didn’t know about Trevor’s former line of work, and look where it’s gotten them.

“Ryan and Jeremy,” Trevor says, something about the names oddly familiar. Stories Alfredo used to tell him about his days in the military. “The ones - “

“The Battle Buddies,” Alfredo says, and when Trevor looks at him, he’s grinning. “Lost track of them after they, uh. You know.”

Faked their own deaths, seeing as how they’re both alive and committing crime here in Los Santos.

Trevor rubs his eyes, and wonders what kind of hole he’s fallen down looking into the mess his life turned into. Following Alfredo out there and picking up old habits he thought he’d shaken a long time ago.

“Ah,” Trevor says, and wonders where they go from here.

“I’m sorry,” Alfredo says, and he sounds it. Like the idiot he is, trying to be noble about things. Wanting to do the right thing by doing the wrong thing and Lifeinvader really does have it right, it’s a complicated thing, this. “I could have done it better.”

Trevor snorts.

“You could have not done it at all,” he points out, but there’s no heat to the words, just an observation. “And I could have told you about me.”

International thief, back in the day, and a damned good one. A little rusty nowadays, because he’d settled down, gotten soft. (That little ember in his chest fizzling out because he’s just as much to blame for this as Alfredo is, always suspected he’d muck things up like this.)

Alfredo’s acting shifty all of a sudden. Darting these little looks at Trevor, biting his lip to keep from blurting out whatever he’s thinking. This look like he has something he wants to say but might die of embarrassment if he does.

“What?”

Alfredo clears his throat, thumping his chest like that’s going to help.

“So,” he says, all casual and non-nonchalant, like he’s not a lech. “That _suit_.”

========

It’s not all roses and sunshine or however that particular little saying go because the ground between Trevor and Alfredo’s all broken up, footing uncertain.

Big lies that gave birth to little ones and sorting through all of it’s going to take some time, but they’re making steady progress. 

No plans to settle down just yet because it takes a lot of work to build an empire and they’re busy, busy people these days.

Ramsey made the mistake of offering Trevor a job. Thought it would be a good investment on his part to have an in-house thief at hand, and Alfredo was good enough not to tell him the kind of trouble he was getting himself in for, which was a good thing, really.

Because this new life Trevor’s building for himself here?

A nice boy like Alfredo with the training he has, and a troublemaker like Trevor with all these tricks up his sleeve and this nice little crew of Ramsey’s backing them up?

Los Santos was _made_ for people like them.


End file.
